


I. . . . . . I died again?

by Panicking_Pan



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Angst, Danny does again, Danny-centric, Gen, Sad, So I did!, i wanted to write something, opps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23391133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panicking_Pan/pseuds/Panicking_Pan
Summary: ‘Did I die again?’‘Is that even possible for me?’‘I died a second time as a child.’‘Death comes for all and miss none. Not even me.’
Comments: 4
Kudos: 46





	I. . . . . . I died again?

**Author's Note:**

> I was bored and wanted to write something angsty again, so I give you this! I don’t know. . . Idea was give by mrsketchy on Discord. Enjoy, I guess?

He didn’t notice it at first. 

Or rather he chose not to acknowledge the cutting of a wire inside of him. It felt cold. He could barely feel his fingers, numb as they had gradually become. Why were they so numb? He didn’t know what was happening at first, his mind too preoccupied to finish his homework for once. To actually finish and meet expectations for the first time in a long while. His mind focused on just finishing it.

_’Finish it. Finish it for once. Stop letting them down. Why do you always let them down? You’re flunking at this rate and you know it. So be_ **_better._ ** _’_

The voice of his subconscious repeated the mantra as if it was his life line. His hand still working the pencil clasped in it. It was shaking now, tremors causing the pencil to make minuscule mistakes. But they weren’t minuscule in his eyes. His once shining now dulled eyes honed in on the marks. They flickered to his still trembling hand before returning. 

They were mistakes. He made a mistake again. Why? He questions himself softly in a repetitive murmur, his fist now fully enclosed around the pencil so tight that he risked snapping it. His mumbling has grown a bit louder now in volume. His blue eyes were unfocused, now glossed over and with eyelids dark from lack of sleep. His head pounding into his skull as he tries to find the answer. Head aching as his eyes tried to refocus on the task at hand, but unable to. Tiredly, he tried to force his hand to continue writing once more, only to find it futile as his hand fell limp. Blue eyes watching as the pencil rolled off the side of his desk and fell to the ground. The pencil landed with a soft tap, but in the middle of the night with no one but him awake — it sounded much louder. Slowly, he looked back towards his hand, still and limp against the cool surface of the desk. He tried to form a fist or even move a finger, but still it lay there uselessly. 

_‘Why isn’t it moving?_ **_Why can’t I pick my hand up?_ ** _’_

Then he noticed it. The cutting of a wire in him. The coldness finally creeped in.

The discoloration of his skin. He knew that he had always been pale, but never had he seen his skin so translucent before. His skin was pale enough to allow him to see the contrast of his blue veins. His knuckles were bruised and bloody from today’s battles. They weren’t healed yet. He didn’t notice that his body wasn’t healing anymore. They should’ve healed in the first hour that he got them, but they didn’t. His nails were bloody and bitten short. He never had a tick before, so why had one appeared? He knew that all these signs weren't healthy nor normal, so why? What changed? But, then he wondered.

Why was it so cold? **When** did it get so cold in here? A chill curled up his spine. Dread filled his mind as he realized that his eyes were now more focused than before. His head had stopped its pounding as well. He didn’t feel tired anymore, or at least physically speaking. Mentally was a different story. That tiredness was carved into his very bones itself. He tried to come up with different answers as to why, but none felt right. They didn’t fit. They had holes in them. It didn’t feel right, until he thought of one word— **_dead._ **

No, no. It couldn’t be. . .

He was already half-dead, wasn’t he? So why? 

**_Why did he die again?_ **

But that couldn’t be true, could it? He had already died once before, so it should’ve been impossible to die a second time. He had always managed to heal from fatal injuries and be completely fine the next day. So, how was it possible? Why was he always the exception to things? Absentmindedly, he wondered if Vlad would miss him. Sure they fought and generally disliked each other, but they were still the only 2 of their own kind. Danielle might be one, but she never went through the sheer feeling of dread when discovering what happened. She never had to deal with it on her own. Only he and Vlad have that pleasure. He was genuinely curious on whether or not Vlad will feel lonely from now on. Can he even move on? Is it possible for him? If his core is to protect or stay with his loved ones, then will he only move on once everyone he held dear, die with him? He shook his head gently, in order to not agitate his head any more than necessary. He didn’t want to think about it now. He’ll go down that road when the time comes down to it. It was honestly too depressing to think about. Though he had to wonder as to what killed him this time around.

Was it the stress of keeping up with everybody’s expectations? The stress of having to keep his core intact? The stress of being a protector? He didn’t know which of these killed him or if it was any of these that killed him in the first place.

He thought about it some more as he stared at his once living, limp hand. He started to remember all the courses that happened in the past 5 months; the good, the bad, the neutral. He remembered when it started after a careless slip of the tongue from Sam. Remembered the detentions and crushing disappointments from his parents. Remembered the hurt from having to compare him to his sister. Remember the neglect and the bullying and the—. And on and on the list went. Every memory seemed to drag him down into his anxieties once more, realizing that he was never the one at fault. Maybe he chose to do the extra heroing and the extra credit, but he never wanted to die in the first place.

He shouldn’t have had to take on so many roles by himself. He was already drowning before, now it had felt like anchors tying him down into the ocean. He was a kid. A child in his preteens when he had died from a measly little accident from a careless mistake. A mistake that shouldn’t have been made. He loathed that word. It reminded him too much of all his past failures. Failures that should’ve been avoided easily if not for all his—!

Guilt and anger flushed his frame. Mistakes led to failures and his failures had cost him dearly each time. He should’ve been smarter. He learned from them, but they never felt like they were never in a way. It seemed as though every single time he learned, worse came his way. It was tiring. **He** was tired. He was so tired of having to try and make everyone happy. He felt like he was suffocating.

But he’s dead now.

And just like that, he calmed down. He felt emotionless once more. He tried to focus on the more positive aspects of his memories this time. Give him a more happy outlook, before fully accepting his death and leaving his body to be found in the morning. So he tried his constant since before he was born: his sister. 

His sister had always taken care of him when his parents locked themselves in the basements for days on end, forcing both children to look after themselves. He could never be angry at her. She was his sister. She loved him and always comforted him when he felt sad, whether that included reading bedtime stories or coming to school to replace a sticker. He loves her for all she did for him. He felt sad knowing that she’ll most likely be the one to find his body. He’ll know that she’ll unjustly blame herself and their parents for his death. He wanted to tell her that “it’ll be alright and he forgives her.” But, a small part of him will always resent their parents for their neglective behavior. He wanted to forgive, he really did. It wasn’t in his nature to hold grudges for too long, but he just couldn’t. He would not be able to ever forgive his parents.

All he can merely do is accept it as it is. Because not only did they neglect him and his sister — they killed him, too. Sure, he’ll admit that he was still half alive, but that didn’t change the fact that he had indeed died. And now, he died for a second time. 

He expected to feel unsettled by the fact, but all that he could feel was cold and empty. Was this what ghosts felt? Or was this just due to his core being ice? He didn’t know, but one thing he did know was: he died again. And this time, he’s fully dead. He looked away from his limp hand, instead opting for the window. His curtains were pulled up tonight, he must’ve forgotten to close them again. The moon was out tonight, shining ever so brilliantly. Stars alight and city dark with the exceptions to the street lamps turned on. Slowly, he allowed himself to drift up and away from his body. Feeling his soul move away from its physical construct. It felt strange and as if a weight was lifted off. He looked down.

His body was lying there, slumped on his desk, papers crumpled underneath, and he sighs. _‘Guess I couldn’t meet their expectations afterall.’_ He thought a little jokingly, a trace of sadness coming through. He didn’t want it dwell on the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘what could’ve beens’. All he wanted now was to rest. To finally put the bone aching tiredness away. He took one last glance at himself, willing his eyes to trace over every inch of his features. From the damp oily hair sticking across his forehead to the stillness of his chest. 

He looked dead. He was dead. And now he is dead. He came full circle. Death had taken him again. 

No one escapes death. Not him, not ghosts, and not even halfas.


End file.
